ore than I am ready to
make."

"Why is that?"

"Because, Mr. Landholm," said she looking up again at him, "I
don't believe I should keep it if I made it."

"You expect me to say, in that case you are quite right not to
make it. No, -- you are quite wrong."

He waited a little; but said no more, and Elizabeth could not.
Then he left the room and she heard him going _down stairs!_ Her
first thought was to spring up and go after to help him to
whatever he wanted; then she remembered that he and Clam could
manage it without her, and that he would certainly choose to
have it so. She curled herself up on her sofa and laying her
head on the cushion in more quiet wise, she went off into a
long fit of musing; for Winthrop's steps, when they came from
down stairs went straight up stairs again, without turning
into the parlour. She mused, on her duty, her danger, her
sorrow and her joy. There was something akin to joy in the
enormous comfort, rest, and pleasure she felt in Winthrop's
presence. But it was very grave musing after all; for her
duty, or the image of it, she shrank from; her danger she
shrank from more unequivocally; and joy and sorrow could but
hold a mixed and miserable reign. The loss of her father could
not be to Elizabeth what the loss of his mother had been to
Winthrop. Mr. Haye had never made himself a part of his
daughter's daily inner life; to her his death could be only
the breaking of the old name and tie and associations, which
of late years had become far less dear than they used to be.
Yet to Elizabeth, who had nothing else, they were very much;
and she looked to the possible loss of them as to a wild and
dreary setting adrift upon the sea of life without harbour or
shore to make anywhere. And then rose the shadowy image of a
fair port and land of safety, which conscience whispered she
could gain if she would. But sailing was necessary for that;
and chart-studying; and watchful care of the ship, and many an
observation taken by heavenly lights; and Elizabeth had not
even begun to be a sailor. She turned these things over and
over in her mind a hundred times, one after another, like the
visions of a dream, while the hours of the day stole away
noiselessly.

The afternoon waned; the doctor came. Elizabeth sprang out to
meet him, referred him to her coadjutor up stairs, and then
waited for his coming down again. But the doctor when he came
could tell her nothing; there was no declarative symptom a